


Fever Dream

by cabret



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sickness, Thunderstorms, and a little bit of cartography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:32:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabret/pseuds/cabret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in front, always, in reality and sleep, his coat whipping around streetlamps, building corners, creaking car doors, and John follows him as his northward arrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unbritpick'd as usual, and once again written in a late night/early morning haze. Mistakes abound. Also: ridiculous use of incorrect punctuation ahead.  
> For [Emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/3pipeproblems/), even though I mistakenly read her HP tag as a metaphor for life.

 

 

 

Sherlock is a dark mass against the wetness of the nightblack city streets, and sometimes John swears he can see the depth of the ocean in the folds of his coat. They’re chasing again, like always, a life run on lung expansion and adenosine triphosphate - except in John’s dreams, these nights recreate themselves as scenarios in which he is surrounded by water and his legs are draped in weights.

Sherlock is in front, always, in reality and sleep, his coat whipping around streetlamps, building corners, creaking car doors, and John follows him as his northward arrow.

 

  

-

 

 

His bed feels too hot and too small the world is too loud and he’s having difficulty opening his eyes - heavy, like thick curtains - and John knows something is wrong when he can’t properly make a fist to rub at them with.

He doesn’t realize how warm and clammy he is until a coolness descends on the nape of his neck, and in his haze he thinks of his pupils dilating until his eyes match the blackness of last night’s sky. And Sherlock - Sherlock is there, lifting the back of John head and putting a glass to his lips; water, John slowly notes, but wasted water, as most of it trickles down his chin and into the hollow of his throat. The cold is a graceful calm - the world quiets down a little.

The last thing he remembers before the lull of returning sleep is the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice, like thunder in a field; John shivers despite the heat and presses his side into the mattress. _Summer storms_ , he thinks. Then there’s a hand in his hair, smoothing away the dampness, and John fades.

  

 

 

-

 

  

In his dreams, they’re still running. There isn’t an end to the street they are on, only block after block of rain-stained pavement under thick, tumultuous clouds and dim golden streetlamps. John is running, but there’s no water around him anymore, no more lead around his legs, and Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , brilliant, anchoring, blazing - Sherlock is still his cardinal north.

Then Sherlock stops abruptly, turns, and John is going too fast to slow down, but the crash never comes; instead, he’s falling, sinking, but in a slow drift downwards. It might just be the most halcyon feeling he’s ever had.

 

 

-

 

 

Two mornings after his fever finally breaks, and John slowly wakes to the light tracings of a finger on his chest.

“Cartography this early?” he manages to croak, and Sherlock ends with a tap at the midpoint of his sternum.

“We’ve already run through all of London. I’m mapping a new city.”

He shifts and brings his left arm over John’s body. John’s breath hitches. There’s a wisp of Sherlock’s lips against his forehead, the press of Sherlock’s hand splayed across his chest - and suddenly, John feels like he’s running again.

Thunder rumbles outside. John breathes out.

 

 

 

 


End file.
